A ride through New Jersey’s Pine Barrens reveals how speed, sand, and fellowship help middle-aged riders confront danger, aging, and the burdens they carry into the woods.
Originally published in Go World Travel Magazine
Into the Pines
The whiff of wildfire, the gloomy pine branches, the braap-braap of the engine firing, the cool, mossy, autumnal air with hints of vanilla, butterscotch, and citrus from resinous conifers brush my cheeks and eye sockets, as if some hidden hands were painting my face.
I’m motoring south on Pasadena Road in Whiting, New Jersey, on my 700cc Yamaha Tenere motorcycle toward what locals call the ‘Gun Club,’ a concrete structure tucked in a small clearing just beyond town. The Gun Club serves as the meeting point for rides with the Pine Barrens Adventure Riding Club, a group I joined about three years ago to bond with other guys and stay safe on the trail.
Wide dirt roads called “fire roads” whoosh by and branch out into the gloom. Faint, weaving skid marks bruise the tarmac, contrasted by bright graffiti. Makeshift crosses mark the spots where drag racers have collided with pine trees and died. When I see the crosses, I feel a sense of dread and excitement. Will I meet my edge?
When I arrive at the Gun Club, I am buzzing with motor vibration and anticipation. Riders are strapping on armor — chest, back, arm protectors, leg braces, helmets, goggles — checking tire pressure, adjusting suspension settings, etc. We are united by a love of riding on the edge, but most riders don’t want to crash. We’re middle-aged. We don’t bounce back like we used to.
The Ritual of the Ride
After some greetings (“How’s your kid?”, “What tires are you running?”), there is a rider meeting. Jack leads it. He is 75, jowly, loud, a little like Walter Matthau if he rode a Husqvarna 701. He tapes a large map onto the back of his van and reviews the day’s track, pointing out water crossings, washouts, deep ruts, horse crossings, etc. There’s a “Stay safe out there,” and then a slightly awkward sock-hop where riders pair up with someone of similar skill level. If you ride 30 mph, you don’t want to pair with someone who rides 70; you’ll end up having a heart attack trying to pick up your bike when you fall, and your partner has already left you in the dust.
I ride with Chad, mainly because it’s hard to imagine someone named “Chad” riding 70 mph in the woods. He is in his late 50s, lean, short, bespectacled, and an IT executive at Oracle. He resembles the pitchfork-wielding farmer from Grant Wood’s “American Gothic.”
“How are your girls, Chad?”
“Good.”
“Wife?”
“Fine.”
“How’s Oracle?”
“Busy.”
Alrighty. Chad and I are caught up. We link up Bluetooth communication devices so we can mark out obstacles during the ride. Turn the bike on, rev the engine, then a cacophony of revs as the group fires up, double-check your route on your Garmin, then, like a fleet of aging sloops raising their masts, one rider after another stands on their bike’s pegs, knees creaking, and sails out into the forest.
Land of Fire and Rebirth
The Pine Barrens are the largest expanse of open land on the Mid-Atlantic seaboard, a sprawling coastal plain of porous sugar sand, Jack pine and oak trees, cranberry bogs, and marshes. The whiff of acrid smoke from wildfires tinges my nose as I ride to the trailhead. Fires are deliberately set by rangers because the ashes fertilize the soil and encourage pine cones to open and drop their seedlings. This is the land of the Phoenix — of fire, of ash, of rebirth.
Since 2020, I’ve endured numerous rebirths. I have bounced back from the terrifying task of feeding my family during the COVID pandemic, undergone dual hip replacements, and dealt with my mother’s dementia diagnosis. Recently, I’ve been grappling with my father’s struggle with alcoholism, which has been a source of immense conflict for me. It saddens me deeply.
Once, while riding alone in Jackson Forest, in Jackson, New Jersey, I was surprised by a yawning rut where the sand pit ended, and the trail resumed. When my front wheel crashed into the rut, I panicked and launched myself off the side of the bike to avoid going over the handlebars, which can maim or kill a rider. I wasn’t wearing proper armor and lost a layer of skin on my forearm when it was raked against a rock and a tree root.
I was riding too fast, a riding error so straightforward it ought to be simple to avoid, but there are deep emotions buried behind every ride. I was riding angrily. I had recently discovered that my dad was serving my mom nightly cocktails. I confronted him, but it didn’t do any good. How could he? What would possess him? Isn’t this a kind of slow violence? As I rode, images like my father trying to get my drunk mother to bed scorched through my mind, and rage coalesced into a molten ball in my throat. Cables of tension rippled through my back, like suspension under load. I wanted to scream.
After the crash, I vowed never to ride alone again. I signed up for the PBAR group, and I’ve been riding with them ever since.
We all carry something into the woods.
Learning to Ride Together
Sweat drenches the mesh lining of my helmet, and the heat coming off me fogs my glasses, clouding my vision. Byzantine single-cut trails branch out from the fire road we are blazing down: Sooy Road in Chatsworth. Chad on the headset: “Watch out for debris on your left.” He sticks a foot out and points at a fallen pine on the trail. I lean the bike away from the pine and whisper a few basics to myself:
“Keep your hips back, Jeff.”
“Don’t fight the bike.”
“You ride the bike; the bike doesn’t ride you.”
Tight corner, watch out. Thread the rear brake, feather the clutch, then, just as fast, ease off and feed in the power slowly, incrementally. Then pin it. Rooster the riders behind you with muck as you power slide around the bend. Pick your line. Pick your line. Pick your line. Your eyes drive the bike, and if you’re not tight around the corner, you may faceplant against a Jeep’s windshield on the other side. There’s traffic in the woods.
The High and the Hurt
Out of the corner, a stretch of beautifully packed sand. Roll on; the back wheel powers through, and the front wheel floats, lifting the bike above the sand like a hydrofoil, prowling and squirming like a shark. The high is tremendous.
Endless rolling bumps called sand whoops appear. Get up on the pegs fast, or the pogoing bike suspension will launch you over the handlebars. Blip the throttle, get the front tire light and over the lip before it crashes down the backside like a trawler in a storm. Don’t look down! Look down and you’re going down. Look far down the trail; tear your eyes away from the ground. You can’t steer out of what you’re mired in. You can only prep for what is to come.
Thighs burn like kindling, core muscles feel like they might burst. Somehow, keep your hands relaxed. Try to breathe.
Chad accelerates into a turn. He doesn’t see the whoops.
“He’s going too fast,” I think.
Over my headset, Chad grunts, mumbles a bit, straining as he tries to right his skittering front wheel.
His bike suspension begins pogoing like a wild bronco, and he is catapulted off the back seat, eliciting a scream that echoes through my helmet. He flips over the handlebars, crashes back-first into a tree, and then crumples to the ground like a sack of flour.
He lies motionless.
I’m so shocked I topple off my bike, then scramble to my feet and rush to his side.
Is he dead? Paralyzed? Slowly, he sits up and puts his arms around his knees, very still, like a shell-shocked soldier.
“Well, that was interesting,” he deadpans.
Recklessness and Fellowship
What is recklessness? The thrill of meeting an edge? A warning signal to use more caution? A brake light? A state of mind? A symptom of rage? Glue that holds a riding group together? Propulsion that blows a rider apart? A field of energy? A great story? Just a word?
There is one truism about the experience of recklessness: it is multifaceted. Chad isn’t reckless by nature, but when the other riders are moving faster than you are, and you’re older and riding to outrun time, then recklessness is a temptation too irresistible to resist.
As I helped lug Chad’s bike back up, I felt a spectrum of emotions: concern, relief that he was okay, and a little anger that he hadn’t spotted the turn, hadn’t slowed his bike. This isn’t the first time he’s pushed things too far. During a previous ride, he insisted on riding a bike much too big for him—a mammoth Triumph Tiger—crashed on a technical uphill, and we couldn’t get the bike upright again. At one point, he threw his helmet off his head, his face beet red, completely out of breath, wheezing hard. I thought he was about to have a heart attack. Eventually, he recovered, and we worked together to lift his bike. It took three of us. Then we sat quietly in the clay-packed mud.
What was Chad carrying into the woods? What was Chad carrying into the woods? There were hints: a son with whom he is rarely in touch, a sense that he has competed with me in the past—riding a 900cc midweight bike, when most riders his size do best on a 300cc dual-sport. But ultimately, I don’t know. He’s a reticent guy, and our fellowship boils down mostly to shared experiences and shared riding values: we don’t leave each other in the dust; we care for each other if we crash. We don’t leave each other behind.
In the woods, nobody talks politics, nobody asks for identification before helping, and nobody leaves another rider in trouble, regardless of race, creed, gender, or sexual orientation. Sometimes I think if everyone in America learned to ride in the woods, they would have to learn to look out for one another. Bonus: no one would have time to tear each other down on TikTok; they’d be too busy picking up their bikes after a fall.
End of the Day
At the end of the day’s ride, we reconvene at the gun club and I do a mental debrief. How was my speed? My balance? Technique? It’s been a smooth ride overall. The workouts, suspension, and tire adjustments I’ve made to my bike seem to be working. But there’s more than suspension to account for the solid ride. The emotional baggage I carry into the woods is slightly less these days. Over the last few months, I’ve sensed my dad cutting back on his drinking. I’ve tried to appreciate all he does for my mom, sometimes joining them on the “walks” they take around the local supermarket. Lighter load, freer ride.
I check in with Chad to make sure he is feeling okay and not masking a deeper injury, like a muscle tear or a concussion. “I’m fine,” he says as he loads his bike onto his hitch carrier, but then he squints a bit, looks at the porcelain-gray sky, and says, “I just wish I could have one smooth ride.”
If You Go
Best Time to Ride:
Spring and fall offer the most manageable temperatures and the best traction. Summer heat can be intense, and winter brings deep sand and icy patches.
Trail Conditions:
The Pine Barrens are known for sugar sand, whoops, and hidden ruts. Ride with a partner or group if possible. Cell service is inconsistent in deeper sections of the forest.
Required Gear:
Adventure or dual-sport helmet, chest and back protection, knee guards, gloves, hydration pack, and tools for basic field repairs. DOT-approved knobby tires are strongly recommended.
Local Riding Groups:
Pine Barrens Adventure Riding Club (PBAR) — They host group rides, training days, and events.
Website: https://www.pinebarrensadventureriding.com/
Maps & Navigation:
· Motor Vehicle Use Maps (MVUM):
New Jersey Department of Environmental Protection – Forest Maps
https://www.nj.gov/dep/parksandforests/
· GPS Tracks & Trail Info:
Sites like Gaia GPS, Rever, or Garmin Explore offer downloadable Pine Barrens routes.
Permits & Regulations:
Most riding areas in the Pine Barrens do not require permits, but stay on legal trails and avoid wetlands, posted conservation areas, and active fire-management zones. You must have a tagged and licensed vehicle to ride in the Pine Barrens.
Fuel & Food Stops:
Fuel stations are sparse inside the forest; fill up before entering. Towns like Chatsworth, Whiting, Manchester, and Hammonton are common staging points.
Safety Tips:
· Ride within your skill level; sand whoops can appear abruptly.
· Avoid riding alone.
· Carry basic first aid, a tow strap, and a tire repair kit.
· Keep an eye out for Jeeps, horses, and hikers on shared trails.
